


Confrontation

by broadlicnic



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Body Horror, Conspiracy, Gen, Gothic, Jekyll and Hyde, Jekyll and Hyde AU, Kevin Derry is back, M/M, Post-Canon, Transformation, although this is technically curtwen that's not the focus, its not super plot relevant but kevin is asexual in this, this is supposed to be a horror fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-19 22:16:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadlicnic/pseuds/broadlicnic
Summary: Desk agent Kevin Derry has always been intrigued by the tragic story of one of A.S.S.'s former agents, and the superstitions that loom over the agency as a result. After Susan reveals a strange sight they witnessed alone in the office, Kevin is driven to dive into casework, to pour over the documents and launch an investigation into the truth of what happened to Curt Mega.A few months earlier, Chimera are still at large, and the bodies are piling up. Carvour may be gone, but the mission is not yet complete. But when a witness describes a man matching Owen's description at the site of a murder, what does that mean for Cynthia Houston. And how does that connect to Derry's case?AKA Jekyll and Hyde AU





	1. The Story of the Chair

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so remember Joey Richter's performance of Confrontation at Shitty Broadway?
> 
> I've been working on this since that came out. Happy spooky month!

Agent Kevin Derry possessed a countenance that was never lighted by a smile; his words fumbled on his tongue; and the tone of them was dreary. His eyes shone with something akin to humour only after the consumption of wine, which loosened his lips enough to hold conversation. It was for this vice that he had been relegated to desk work at the American Secret Service; men did not trust to work with him and marks broke his defences quickly with the offer of refreshment. He had a tolerance of his colleagues, but looked upon them with envy from behind his prison cell constructed of brown manilla folders and empty coffee cups.

Derry was a modest man, and it was the mark of a modest man to accept friendship in any form it was offered. It was this that led Agent Derry to the door of Susan, a delightfully ordinary person whose years of verbal beatings and cigarette habit had wreaked havoc with their own visage, but whose unwavering loyalty to the agency saw them converse with agents of any status.

“Do you remember who sat in that chair?” Susan asked Agent Derry, as they gathered by their desk to seek warmth in the winter chill from their coffee machine. Their gaze was fixed upon an empty seat at a desk that had been vacant for many years. Layers of dust had gathered upon its surface from lack of use and a superstition that plagued the American Secret Service about the desk’s prior occupant. “The history of that chair comes with it an odd story.”

“Indeed?” Derry said, with a slight lift in his voice. His curiosity had often been piqued as he passed the desk, as barren and solitary as anything he had seen before. It was a curious artefact, as if left in tribute for its former occupant. Or in warning for whomever inherited that position.

“Well, it was this way,” Susan said in a conspiratorial hush. Derry perched on their desk, intrigued. “I was coming into the office one black winter morning. I was the first person here. Director Houston likes it when she arrives to a fresh pastry and the morning’s papers on her desk, and I take my job here very seriously. I first found it strange that I could see light as I entered the hallway, but reasoning that some agent may had forgot to turn off their lamp after working late, I continued on to the kitchen. It was in there that I heard a terrible ruckus; the noise of cups smashing, files clattering to the floor… a man screaming. Now, I have worked at the American Secret Service for many years, but never have I been in the field. I was fearful for my own safety.”

“Understandable,” Derry nodded. “What did you do?”

“The yelling was getting louder,” Susan continued. “It sounded like two men, embroiled in a fight. I hoped that they had no interest in harming me, but still I took up a knife for protection. I knew to head for the emergency alarm in the Director’s office, that sounding it would alert every agent to a security breach in HQ, but to reach that office, I had to pass through this very room. Now it was still dark, and the room was lit only by a solitary desk lamp, on that very desk. My plan was to stick to the shadows and slip by unnoticed.”

“What happened?” Derry asked. “Did these men hurt you?”

“I don’t believe they would have noticed me even if I walked brazenly into the room and offered them a greeting,” Susan said. “But that’s the curious thing. I say they. There was only one man. Agent Mega.”

“Agent _Curt_ Mega?” Derry spluttered.

“I see you’ve heard of him,” Susan sighed. “Yes, difficult to keep that sorry business under wraps, even amongst spies. That desk belonged to Agent Mega. He had… a rough time had befallen him. The loss of a former partner, a capture, the details aren’t important. All I know is that the tragedies that he had suffered must have driven the poor man mad.”

“What do you mean?” Derry asked, wishing Susan hadn’t rushed through the details of Mega’s history. He’d watched as an eerie hush fell over his colleagues whenever Mega’s name was mentioned, desperate to know the cause of such secrecy. His time with the agency came months after Mega’s last sighting in public.

“See, Mega… he was fighting _himself_. I heard two voices, but saw only one man.”

“I don’t understand,” Derry said.

“No, dear boy,” Susan said sadly, resting a hand over his. “Neither do I.”

~~~

That evening, Agent Kevin Derry came home to his apartment in sombre spirits. It was his custom, on a Friday, to eat a light meal before heading out to lose himself in the anonymity of the city streets, warming his belly with alcohol before collapsing into a bed that may or may not have been his own. On this night, however, he nibbled feebly at a sandwich, before casting it aside, his thoughts lost in the bitter chill of the light snowfall outside of his window. Susan’s strange story had plagued him throughout the day, as he mindlessly shuffled his papers, his gaze fixed on the eerie, dust-covered desk. Christmas was approaching, and it seemed even the criminal underworld took the holidays for family time, as his workload was light. He’d signed a few documents blindly, stacking them on the precarious mountain of manilla folders that already surrounded him. Then, he’d been revitalised by an idea. Unassuming, quiet, stoic, Agent Derry had been entrusted with the key to the records room. Director Houston had not taken him for a loose cannon, and sought not to hire one following the terrible business with Mega. Agent Derry held access to the entire database of the American Secret Service, and for three years, he had not acknowledged the power this granted him.

It was not unusual for Agent Derry to bring his work home with him. Generally, the files he stuffed into his battered briefcases were for minor cases; drug smugglers, small-time money launderers or fraud cases. They were never missed because nobody wanted Derry’s cases. The other agents craved the thrill of the chase, the sex and violence of Ian Fleming novels. A mystery that wasn’t solved on paper.

Agent Kevin Derry had always been fond of puzzles. The firing of a gun left him fearful, not exhilarated, while piecing together information to discover the full picture gave him a rush that no booze, no carnal pleasure, could ever match. He sought answers, and this hunger for knowledge brought him to the doors of the American Secret Service. He did not expect to find the place filled with adult children, treating weapons like toys.

Agent Mega had been one of those people, once upon a time. Derry pulled his case file out from his briefcase. It was thick with loose sheets of typed paper, scribbled notes, faded photographs; perhaps the largest case file held by the entire Agency. It, too, would not be missed. As with his desk, Mega’s file had been preserved in a layer of dust, tucked away in the back corner of the records room. Each other file was alphabetised, Susan saw to that. Mega’s file had been hidden away like an old shame, a cursed relic.

Derry sat down with a clouded brow to study the file’s contents. The photograph pinned to the front of the manilla envelope was standard; Derry recognised the background from his own agency identity papers. Mega was a young man in the image, recruited in his early twenties, so the records indicated. His shoulders were broad and his smile was wide. A winning smile, some would say. The kind of smile that would fool any crook and charm any mark. It was a far cry from the images that followed. The second photograph saw Mega older, with sunken, haunted eyes; a gnarled, wiry beard hiding the strong jawline that seemed more fitting to the superhero comics Derry bought for his nephew. Other photographs followed. In some, he was clean-shaven, tidy, presentable, in others slovenly and unkempt, but in all, those eyes remained cold and empty.

Another small image nestled amongst the photographs. Unlike the standard issue agency mugshots, this was a candid, blurred and faded, folded as if kept inside a wallet for years. The Mega in this image was the young, bright-eyed charmer of his early years, and he was not alone. He’d heard the stories of Owen Carvour; such scandal was difficult to avoid. A partnership between an A.S.S. and an MI-6 agent was already highly unusual, and the circumstances of its conclusion even more so. A man seemingly returned from the dead, now a cold-hearted murderer, prepared to destroy the global intelligence network out of sheer revenge. What drove a man to such villainy, such hate? Especially when the expression in Carvour’s face in this photograph had been so affectionate?

Derry set aside the photographs without looking at the final one, for he knew what that sheet of paper contained. It was the lasting image of Mega in the agency now, the one that the grizzled older agents showed their new recruits as a cautionary tale, as they warned them not to take Mega’s old desk. In Derry’s nightmares, he still saw the wildness in those eyes.

Derry thought back on Susan’s story. Had that animal-like ferocity possessed Mega on that night? The two voices Susan had heard, were they the result of a madness within Mega’s very soul? Derry’s fingers trembled as he turned the pages. He performed his usual task, seeking out the puzzle pieces. He was not sure if he would like the answer to the riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read any of my other fics, you'll know I never usually write such short chapters. Note, this is a stylistic choice.


	2. The Mission Transcripts

_AUDIO TRANSCRIPTION OF MISSION ALPHA-B19_

_DATE: AUGUST 13 1961_

_AUDIO RECEIVED VIA WRIST-MOUNTED DEVICE OF ONE AGENT CURTIS MEGA_

_AUDIO RECEIVED BY DOCTOR BARBARA LARVENOR_

_AUDIO TRANSCRIBED BY DOCTOR BARBARA LARVENOR_

_ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE IDENTIFIES SPEAKERS AS AGENT CURTIS MEGA AND AGENT OWEN CARVOUR_

_SPEAKERS VERIFIED THROUGH VOICE RECOGNITION_

**MEGA**: Your surveillance network is fried. There’ll be no encore tonight, for you.

**CARVOUR**: Perhaps you’ve destroyed that island facility, but what of the others?

**MEGA**: There’s more?

**CARVOUR**: How does it feel to know you’ll never catch up with us.

**MEGA**: It’s not too late to fix this. If you agree to give up Chimera, [CONTENT REDACTED]

**CARVOUR**: You still don’t see, do you, Curt? There won’t be any agency to go back to once the system is global. I’m going to single-handedly dismantle everything you ever believed in.

**MEGA**: We used to share those beliefs. Think of the missions we served. The lives we saved. The impact we had on this world. Together. Two of the greatest spies to ever live. Now you consider that, and you look me in the eyes and you tell me you don’t believe we’re making a difference.

**CARVOUR**: The future is happening, Curt, and it’s not going to wait for you. What use would one man be, when a box in a room can do his job in seconds?

**MEGA**: Sounds boring.

**CARVOUR**: You’re a caveman, and I’ve invented fire.

**MEGA**: I’ll stop you.

**CARVOUR**: You’ll do your best. [CONTENT REDACTED]

**CARVOUR**: A new world awaits us, Curt. A world without agencies, a world without spies, a world without secrets.

**MEGA**: [CONTENT REDACTED]

**CARVOUR**: [CONTENT REDACTED]

**MEGA**: [inaudible]

**CARVOUR**: [CONTENT REDACTED]

_SHOT FIRED BY AGENT CURTIS MEGA. NO FATALITIES._

**CARVOUR**: You know, killing me won’t take the system offline so, what are you doing?

**MEGA**: Taking your advice.

_SHOT FIRED BY AGENT CURTIS MEGA. FATALITY CONFIRMED AS AGENT OWEN CARVOUR BY EYE-WITNESS ACCOUNT._

_REMAINS OF AGENT CARVOUR LEFT AT SCENE. REMAINS DESTROYED IN EXPLOSION AT RUSSIAN WEAPONS FACILITY._

~~~

Derry set aside the transcript with a heavy sigh. Its contents were well-known within the agency. The death of the MI-6 Agent Owen Carvour had rocked the entire intelligence community, but any new information he could glean from Carvour’s final moments had been erased by those thick black lines. He wondered, did Dr. Larvenor redact those statements herself, or did it come from a higher authority; Director Houston herself perhaps? Barb had become a reclusive, shy woman in Agent Mega’s aftermath, leaving the running of her lab to her apprentice Irene, and sequestering herself to the small black office in the back to which only she had the key. Derry had only met her once in the entire time he had worked as a desk agent.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The light was growing dim and the room was mostly lit by his fireplace, but he did not raise from his seat to switch on a light. The gloom surrounding him helped him to focus, to not be distracted by his meagre possessions or the bed that was waiting for him, beckoning him with terrible dreams of Susan’s strange story. He sipped at his tea, now cooling and not at all comforting, before sliding back on his spectacles and reaching for another transcript.

\---

_AUDIO TRANSCRIPTION OF MISSION ALPHA-C32_

_DATE: OCTOBER 9 1961_

_AUDIO RECEIVED VIA WRIST-MOUNTED DEVICE OF ONE AGENT CURTIS MEGA_

_AUDIO RECEIVED BY DOCTOR BARBARA LARVENOR_

_AUDIO TRANSCRIBED BY DOCTOR BARBARA LARVENOR_

_ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE IDENTIFIES SPEAKERS AS AGENT CURTIS MEGA AND AGENT TATIANA SLOHZNO. THIRD SPEAKER UNIDENTIFIED._

_SPEAKERS VERIFIED THROUGH VOICE RECOGNITION. THIRD SPEAKER UNVERIFIED._

**MEGA**: Tati, we clear?

**SLOHZNO**: Wait!

**MEGA**: We need to get out of here!

**SLOHZNO**: I am just limiting the blast radius.

**MEGA**: Okay, hurry it up!

**SLOHZNO**: I’m trying I - Curt!

_SHOT FIRED BY UNKNOWN ASSAILANT. INJURY SUSTAINED BY AGENT TATIANA SLOHZNO IN RIGHT SHOULDER_

**MEGA**: Shit! Tati!

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Agent Mega. I must say, I thought you’d be taller.

**MEGA**: Give it up, your systems are already offline.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Do you really think we’d make it so easy for you to shut us down? We learn from our mistakes, Mega. Unlike you.

**MEGA**: What are you talking about?

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Carvour told us about your habit of bulldozing your way into trouble without assessing the situation. Of course, it took some time to prize that information from him.

**MEGA**: What did you do to him? You - you changed him.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Perhaps. Or perhaps we just exposed what was always hidden.

**MEGA**: Well it’s too late. We have your facility surrounded.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: He also told us you were a terrible liar, for a spy. We know it’s just you and the Russian, and we come to offer you a trade.

**MEGA**: I don’t negotiate with terrorists.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Your life, for hers.

**SLOZHNO**: Curt, don’t!

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: We’ll get her out of here. Drop her at a hospital where your A.S.S. can pick her up. If you come with us.

**SLOZHNO**: Get out of here, Curt! I’ll be fine.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Of course, if you refuse I’ll just kill you both. Admittedly, it’s not a great trade.

**MEGA**: What do you want with me? The Secret Service doesn’t deal in ransoms, I’m useless to your plans.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Our surveillance system is already live. This isn’t about any plan. Carvour was a good asset, once we… convinced him. You took him away from us.

**MEGA**: So this is revenge? You want to make me pay? To suffer? I already suffer, pal.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: You might be able to help us get him back.

**MEGA**: What?

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: [CONTENT REDACTED]

**MEGA**: He’s dead.

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: You believed that once before.

**MEGA**: I shot him in the head. Nobody could survive…

**SLOZHNO**: Curt, he’s playing you!

**UNKNOWN SPEAKER**: Perhaps I am. But don’t you want to find out?

**SLOZHNO**: Curt!

_AUDIO TERMINATES._

\---

Derry slammed his hand down on the table, crying out an expletive. He was unsurprised that Director Houston had redacted so much information in the mission transcripts, but it did not make his job any less frustrating. He had to pause to correct himself. This was not his job; he had not been assigned the strange case, had not been authorised to steal this file and its strange contents. His curiosity had overtaken his reason and driven him to the folly.

But he had worked at the American Secret Service for what was approaching two years, and each day his eyes fell on that dusty desk for what seemed like the first time. Each day, he shivered at the sight of it.

He wondered where Mega was now. An honourable discharge is what he’d been told by the other agents, but no further information had come to light. Even Susan appeared to be unaware as to his whereabouts. What could drive a man to an honourable discharge? Surely it was not the death of Carvour, Derry could recognise from the transcripts alone that his behaviour had been unprofessional before that fateful shooting. The second transcript, one new to his knowledge, illuminated some possibilities. He could have been crippled in a mission, but Houston would have assigned him to desk duty beside Derry himself. Perhaps he had been placed in witness protection, it being far too dangerous to allow him into the field with Chimera on his tail? Perhaps he was dead?

The latter possibility unnerved him. He had not been killed in his capture, this much Derry knew. Susan’s strange story had taken place in the winter of 1961, setting it after Mega’s apparent capture. Mega was last seen at the agency in March 1962, only three months before Derry began working there.

Derry gathered up the transcripts, scanning Houston’s briefing for the operations. The first transcript had none, but it was no secret that Mega had not been operating under official government orders at the point of Carvour’s death. The second report had a further interesting detail. The mission was meant for Agent Slozhno alone. Curt Mega was never supposed to be there.


	3. The Laboratory Notes and the Letter

Barbara Larvenor was a very neat person, by all accounts, with many of the scientists praising the cleanliness and order of her laboratory in days gone by, an order which had been disrupted by Dr Irene Bradley. While she may have demonstrated efficiency in her office space, this did not extend to her notes. Susan had once claimed Dr Larvenor to have one of the most brilliant minds in the country, and it would appear her hands were unable to match the pace of her brain and her observations. Her handwriting was an array of scratches and squiggles, more accurately resembling hieroglyphics than words, and she covered every inch of her paper, with little logical order to her observations.

Derry stared at the confusing sheets for a long while. Dusk had now fallen completely to night, and he had been forced away from his desk to switch on a lamp. He carried the paper with him, holding it up against the stark bulb in the hopes that it might illuminate Dr Larvenor’s meaning.

He had managed to decipher a few phrases. The notes certainly came after Mega’s escape from Chimera in the winter of 1961. The details of his injuries were not evident in any of Mega’s other official case documents, and sounded too bizarre to belong to any time period other than that which led to Mega’s eventual disappearance. Dr Larvenor had listed in the margins of the first sheet Mega’s physical state: a broken leg, broken skin from blunt force trauma and from weapons alike, some surface wounds, and some deeper cuts from a knife. He was missing a few teeth, not unusual for an agent exposed to torture. Derry could count on one hand the number of field agents who did not possess at least two false molars. His skin was bruised and swollen. It was a standard physical description of a torture victim.

It was elsewhere in her notes that Dr Larvenor’s descriptors began to confuse him. He picked out the words “hair”, “brown”, “black”, “short”, “long” all clumped together and circled. Elsewhere, she had written “the eyes change”. On the second page of notes, she had written at least one legible paragraph, which was concerning Mega’s back.

_Examination of Mega’s spine shows no broken vertebrae, however, it is visible that there has been some trauma. Left shoulder slopes lower than right while standing, even taking into account the broken leg. X-ray reveals extensive scoliosis of the spine, with the curvature situated between Mega’s shoulder blades. Previous x-ray dated 06/04/1961 reveals no such spinal condition. A curvature of this nature in such a space of time is impossible._

“Impossible,” Derry muttered to himself, echoing the doctor’s words. No trauma, no torture, could account for such a change in Mega’s body. Further notes made reference to newly-formed stretch marks on Mega’s limbs and torso, as if he was a child again hitting a sudden growth spurt. “Unresponsive to my voice,” Dr Larvenor had written.

Derry felt the headache beginning to form, the distinct throbbing behind his eyes. He removed his glasses once more, pinching at the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. Even in the newly-lit room his lids were heavy, his shoulders aching from hunching over his desk. Still, the thought of his bed terrified him. Little caused Derry to feel true fear except a fear of the unknown, and Mega’s case file had only given him more questions. He remembered Susan once again, the stillness in their movements and horror in their voice as they saw Mega beating himself. Could Mega had simply been driven mad? Broken by the loss of his partner and the pain he endured at Chimera’s hands? It was a simple, and sensible conclusion to form, and yet, it did not sit right with Derry. A fluttering in his stomach told him that the answers could not be that simple. He felt responsible, not only to himself, but to the agent he had never met, to dig out the truth.

But it was dark, and his head pounded, and his body was fatigued. No, Derry would not go to bed that night, but perhaps he could sit in his armchair. Perhaps he could close his eyes a while.

\---

It was still dark when Kevin Derry awoke, but the fire had long since burnt out, and a cold chill filled the space. He had left the lamp switched on, and the stark bulb hurt his eyes as he blinked himself awake. Mercifully, dreams had not come to him; he struggled to remember the tricks of his mind and found nothing. He looked at his watch, his eyes still bleary. He was able to focus enough to read the display, 3:15am. His head still ached but not with the urgency it had before. The lab notes had fallen from his grip onto the floor and he left them there, their confusing contents could be saved for a more reasonable hour.

Derry stumbled into his small bathroom, relieved himself, and leant heavily against his wash basin. The chill was intense in the room, the cold seeping from the white tiles to his bare feet. He lifted his head to take in his own reflection in the mirror. His hair, which he made an effort to keep neat when at the agency, was sticking up in a myriad of directions, his plain black suit crumpled on his back. His eyes were bloodshot red, and even now he felt the urge to rub them. Perhaps the headache was the start of an illness. Perhaps he wished it was in order to spend a few days at home with Mega’s case file.

Perhaps he would lie to his employer.

The hour was too early for the standard desk worker, only field agents or those working an emergency up at this hour. He would make the telephone call in a few hours. Derry stumbled into his bedroom, changing into a more comfortable t-shirt and trousers that he generally wore when cleaning, and returned to his desk. He had no idea where to begin. The papers appeared to have been thrown into the file haphazardly, in no semblance of order other than the top sheet which detailed Mega’s age, physical description and security clearance level. He was tempted to tip all of the papers onto the floor, hoping they might land in some semblance of an order. Instead he sat down with a heavy sigh, and grabbed a paper at random.

It was a handwritten sheet, and its date immediately caught Derry’s eye. 3rd May 1956. Derry was still a schoolboy then, and he was not much younger than Mega himself. How old had he been when he was recruited, Derry wondered. The paper was a letter, the ink slightly faded, but still legible. He flipped it over. There was no name to indicate who had written it, but the letter was addressed to Mega himself.

_Dearest Curt,_

_I wait with bated breath for the day I get to see you again. It is the nature of our business that several thousand miles frequently separates us, and yet it doesn’t hurt any less when we have to part._

_I’ve been thinking about Berlin. I think about Berlin often, and I hope you do too. I still remember the way the streetlights reflected in your eyes as we made our way back to the hotel, our lives safe and a mission complete. I could have looked into those eyes forever. I dream of your eyes, Curt._

_I don’t know how to put into words what we have, my love. Are there words for this? I feel for you the way the great sonnets describe love, and yet they feel inadequate. I wish I could tell you this every day. I wish I could feel your arms around me every morning and that I could kiss your hair every night._

_Is love possible for us, Curt? Oceans and protocols and judgement conspire to keep us apart, and yet somehow I keep finding my way back to you. The simple truth is this: I love you, Curt Mega. We may not ever be able to share that with the world, but if you know it to be true, that would be enough._

_I will be in Toronto next month. I hope that, with luck, you might find your way there too._

_Forever yours,_

_Your love._

Derry set aside the letter sheepishly. Romance had never been an interest of his; his poor mother had thought it curious that matters of the heart never affected him in his youth and had sent him to a doctor. But the pursuit of knowledge, that was where Kevin’s love lay. Even so, he recognised that he had stumbled upon a private correspondence. He could question as to the author of that letter. He could wonder why such a personal item was amongst Agent Mega’s case file. He could examine the language, see if it matched with any other documents he came across. He didn’t. He was too tired and too confused and he had started sniffling now. He was surely being overcome with a cold. The letter remained forgotten on his desk as he carried himself to the kitchen, in need of a glass of warm milk and painkillers.


End file.
